


The Singer

by Daiyancon



Category: Doki Doki Literature Club! (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Short One Shot, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17570357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daiyancon/pseuds/Daiyancon
Summary: Passing by a door, I heard the voice of an angel in song.If you said you loved me I'd cry, ~♪even a lie, ~♪and if you told me to die I'd die, ~♪before a minute passes by. ~♪





	The Singer

Passing by a door, I heard the voice of an angel in song. 

If you said you loved me I'd cry, ~♪  
even a lie, ~♪  
and if you told me to die I'd die, ~♪  
before a minute passes by. ~♪

As I peaked inside, the scene before me contrasted starkly with what I had heard. Her shoulders lay sunken, her head too, faced downwards, as if she feared seeing her own reflection in the computer screen. She stayed in that sorry state. A minute. Now two. She did not continue her song nor lift her head. At last, I knocked on the door, and she recoiled, covering her head, as if to the sound of gunfire. Meeting my eyes for a split second, she quickly averted her gaze. After a moment's silence she spoke. "Sorry, was I being too loud? I didn't mean to bother you." "Oh no, not at all! In fact you were quite good. The only thing that bothered me was you stopped so soon." Well, and that her posture seems at odds with her divine performance. I walked closer, and, perhaps a bit rudely, shifted my view to the computer screen. "A singing contest? Were you considering competing?" Next to some cup ramen, A microphone stood out on the desk, and rather than making eye contact, she stared at it intensely, as if to kill it. "No. Not seriously anyway. It was just a childish thought." "But you were quite good. Not just the lyrics, but the natural sound of your voice and the skill with which you sang were all extremely pleasing to the ears. I can tell you practiced, it would be a waste to throw that effort away, right?" I began scrolling down the webpage. Various example videos of previous winners littered the page. The more I listened to them, the more my ears begged me to stop. Not an ounce of talent nor passion nor mercy resided within the disappointment that was that page. "What? You're way better than them! You're out of their league. If you compete, you'll win for sure." She remained silent. I continued to scroll down the webpage, tearing through more examples. I began to parrot the drivel that was supposedly some form of obstacle for her. "You're more beautiful than the moon?! That line has been a cliche for millennia! And they didn't even make it rhyme! I can't stop thinking about you?! I can't stop thinking about how mediocre this song is! Listen, I'm begging you, send in your submission. You'll win, and if by some cosmic event you don't at the very least you'll be a winner to me." Shoot, that was a cheesy line. A shame there's no backspace key for what you've already said. That aside, to my astonishment she slowly lifted up her head, and although not quite meeting my eyes, she did manage to meet my torso, unblinkingly. "I'll be a winner to you?" I'm too invested in my line now. "Yes, you'll be a winner to me. I'll even help you rehearse before you submit, if that's alright with you?" Her frown blossomed into a beaming grin that befit her voice. I knew it. She really was an angel. 

Often for hours we practiced. The songs varied, the magic was consistent.

Not electric chair, ~♪  
Not grenades could dare ~♪

Not napalm banned, ~♪  
could warm this dame, ~♪  
but the touch of your hand, ~♪  
set me aflame! ~♪

and even hell was bruised and beat, ~♪  
now obsolete! ~♪

We would turn our attention away from the sunlit window for what we thought was a second, only to find that it had grown dark. Even as her voice began to wane, and become shrill, our hearts did not tire. Quite the contrary, the more we... well, she practiced, the more our dream seemed ever closer. And it was OUR dream. Although I could not look into her heart to read her intentions, I knew that I wanted her to succeed just as much as she wanted to, if not more. 

"I'm thankful for you staying so long practicing with me, but we've been at it a while. Shouldn't you be getting home by now? I wouldn't want to keep you." Moths outside were fluttering to the window, beating against the glass. Perchance to witness her practice first-hand. "It is rather late. But today is the last we'll practice before the deadline. If there was a single time for me to stay later, it would be now." Stiffly, she raised her head to face me. "You said I would win for sure, right?" "Well, yes." "Then I'll believe you. You should get some rest." And that was that. Everyday after that I found myself constantly checking the webpage for the announcement. "The winner? The winner? Not now, maybe in an hour. Not today, maybe tomorrow." Until inevitably my expectations were realized. There it was. Her submission. First place. I had heard her rehearsal dozens of times, more even, but to finally have an audio file of her voice to play on loop! It's a tragedy I didn't think to record her earlier. Putting that aside I quickly went to congratulate her. As I entered her room, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a tackle-hug. "We did it! We did it! We really did it!" "I never doubted you for a second." No longer was she slouching, no longer was she walking around with an anchor on her neck, no longer was she frowning as if all the sorrows of tomorrow were known today. Instead she was the spitting image of confidence, of vigor, of bliss. "It suits you." "First place, you mean?" "That too. But not just that. Standing up straight with your head held high, you should have acted like this from the start." "It's all thanks to you." That day's victory was the first of many. Winning the contest introduced her to new connections, and paved the way for her to rapidly advance her career. What started as small performances soon became highly professional ones. It wasn't long before she was a household name. An idol. One of the most popular singers, if not the most popular. Countless amateurs produced remixes of her songs as tribute. 

Alongside her fame, her wealth, too, blossomed. What was once cup ramen on her desk was now lobster one day. Or sushi another. Or some strange French name with pronunciation alien to me. Perhaps even to the French. Gift after gift was showered upon me. Although it was uneasy to accept so many, I obliged at first. To make her happy, I told myself. There's no shame in accepting a gift or two among friends. Though they kept coming. Expensive ones, too. Brand name clothes that I could only assume were the latest fashion. For instance a coat made in... Monaco? Is that a company? A country? Or top of the line electronics I didn't even know were out yet. Were they out yet? Did she pull strings to get this? It wouldn't have been so bad if I could reciprocate but I hadn't a fraction of the fraction of the wealth required to do so. Even I have shame. Though every attempt to decline was met with the same response. "You're so modest!" or "Consider it a partial repayment." Such an angelic voice but such demonic words. I had no choice but to relent, of course. Only demons argue with angels. Still, though. These gifts were difficult to carry. And not just in weight, either. Or guilt, either. A person like me would seem like a walking pinata with goods like these on me. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed as though I was being watched not long after I started receiving the avalanche of gifts. But that's a normal feeling, right? Scopaesthesia, I believe they call it. Caused by the angular gyrus in the brain, whatever that is. As I entered my house, however, I heard footsteps. Not mine of course. Someone else's. An auditory hallucination? Believing in one coincidence is iffy, but two is downright foolhardy. I furtively peered through the blinds. As sneakily as I could, anyway. Ah. Ah, that's a man. And he's staring straight at me. No coincidence. No paranoia. This man is a stalker, or probably a thief scouting out his future victim. He saw me. He definitely saw that I saw him and now he knows. A docile prey is the easiest. Frantically, I ran out the door towards the man. He remained frozen, as a deer in headlights, until I came upon him and tackled him. "DO YOU THINK I'M A PUSHOVER?!" The spontaneous line must have certainly shocked me as much as him, but now was not the time for calculated one-liners. As he fell upon the ground countless photos littered the floor. Photos of ME. Me in the morning. Me in the afternoon. Me at dinner. Me asleep. "What the heck is this?! You sicko! You FREAK!" He squirmed like a worm until he broke free, and rather than assaulting me he found it fit to flee with his tail between his legs. I picked up the pictures, and took another look at them.

"What a freak, right?" I told her over lunch. A single drop of sweat ran down her face. How inspiring. A giant like her is worried about an ant like me. "Oh, but don't worry too much about me. I'm sure I'll be safe. In situations like these one must be aggressive, and I scared him off quite well. It wouldn't be a surprise if that man never interacted with me ever again. Still though, I wonder why exactly he was after me?" She opened her mouth to speak, as if the gates of heaven were opening. How peculiar then, that my ears were met with a mortal stuttering. "I- I'm s-sure it w-was because of t-the. B-because of..." "Because of all the gifts you gave me, right?" She paused, and after a thousand-year moment, regained her composure. "Yes." "I don't blame you. You were just being generous and you didn't mean any harm by it. And I'm not even harmed. Like I said I'll be safe. I'm more worried about what this could mean for you. Maybe he was aiming for you by proxy of me. You're the star, it's all about you." Extending my arm to give her a thumbs up, I knocked over her purse. Out fell dozens, no, hundreds of pictures. Pictures of me. The very same as that man's. "Actually, it's all about YOU."


End file.
